


paint me like one of your french girls

by medusacascade22



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Washington Capitals, apple logos, drunken antics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:39:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medusacascade22/pseuds/medusacascade22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brooks knew that Mike liked to paint, he just didn't know exactly <i>what</i> Mike painted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	paint me like one of your french girls

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I cannot give you the recipe for Bison Nachos. Sorry, give Beags a call.

 

 

It seems like the entire team is out tonight, in various states from designated driver to tipsy to full on crunk. Brooks and Mike are of the “drink my body weight in booze” variety, along with Carlie and the Alexes.

It’s who knows o’ clock in the morning when Knubes comes over to their corner table and tells them to get their asses out, and preferably to home and to bed.

“Noobs!” Ovi says. “No, we stay! We have fun!”

Knubes just rolls his eyes and waves Dima over to take the other Russians home. His night-long pout from being underage in America deepens into one of exhaustion and annoyance as Ovi and Sasha drape themselves over his shoulders. Dima steers them out the door, both speaking in Russian so quick that no one can tell if it’s slurred or not.

“And that would be mine,” Carlie sighs as he sees Karl approaching. He gets up without protest, following Karl out to the parking lot. Karl’s steady hand pushes at the small of Carlie’s back the whole way.

“Beags,” Knubes calls and tosses a few rings of car keys at him. “Take these home,” he gestures towards where Brooks and Mike are now alone at the table, giggling to each other.

Beags sighs, but does as he’s told. “Come on, assholes,” he says, dragging Mike up by his bicep. Brooks latches onto Mike’s other hand and they exit the bar like that, in a makeshift giggling train.

Mike sits in the backseat of Beags’ car and presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the few lights of Arlington flash by. He hums quietly to himself, ignoring Brooks lecturing Beags about every possible aspect of life, from face-offs to the proper way to prepare chicken salad in the front seat. To his credit, Beags takes it well, nodding and grunting at the appropriate times.

They get to Mike’s place, and he’s too busy fumbling with his seatbelt to notice that Brooks has gotten out of the car and is waiting by the front door. Mike doesn’t think twice about it, just looks forward to the inevitable video games, and hastily thanks Beags for the ride and promises to see him at practice.

Beags watches the two stagger into the building before driving away, shaking his head and wondering how he got stuck with this cracked up team, and also if maybe Whole Foods is still open because he’s out of chips for Bison Nachos.

Brooks follows Mike into his apartment, a familiar path even for drunken feet. Mike collapses onto his couch and is reaching blindly for the remote when he hears booming laughter coming from the direction of his kitchen. He does his best to roll onto his side, but almost falls of the couch, so he settles for leaning his chin up on the cushions so that he can see Brooks’ figure illuminated by the light from the open fridge. Brooks is bent over, shaking with the force of his laughter, and pointing at something on Mike’s counter.

Mike’s brow furrows up for a moment while he tries to determine what Brooks could be pointing to, and when he remembers, he actually does fall off the couch, which only makes Brooks laugh even harder.

It takes a while before Brooks gets it together enough to come and help Mike up, only to lose it again when he sees the embarrassed flush on his cheeks.

“Fuck you,” Mike groans. He snatches the offending object out of Brooks’ reach. He’s too out of it to backtrack or mentally berate himself for leaving his sketchbook out in public areas. “Whatever, you know that I paint.”

“Yeah,” Brooks manages between breathy laughs. “I just didn’t know you painted naked dudes!”

Mike pouts and kind of wants to cry, but doesn’t, thank god. He just clutches the book to his chest and storms off to his room, slamming the door behind him.

“Wait, Mike,” Brooks calls after him when he realizes the damage he’s caused. He presses his nose up against where the door meets the wall and whines a little bit. “I’m sorry! I really am… open up, Mikey, please.”

It takes a few minutes, but Mike finally cracks the door open enough to peer through with one eye.

“I’m sorry,” Brooks repeats. “Actually… I mean, I didn’t get a good look or anything, but it looked pretty good.”

Mike raises an eyebrow, silently questioning the validity. Brooks sighs.

“It’s true. Here, let me in, I’ll tell you for sure.” Brooks hopes that the whine in his voice isn’t as pronounced to Mike’s drunk ears as it is to his own. Mike stares at him with one eye for a little longer, but finally opens the door enough for Brooks to step in.

Brooks makes a beeline for Mike’s bed, grabbing the sketchbook and pulling it into his lap. Mike hesitantly takes a seat next to Brooks as he thumbs through the book, scrutinizing each page with an intensity that honestly scares the shit out of Mike. It’s not that he’s ashamed of his work, but he hadn’t exactly planned on anyone seeing it, and yeah, they are mostly male nudes, for reasons that Mike chooses not to analyze.

“Mike, these really are good,” Brooks says. “You’ve got real talent… talent above the Apple logo,” he teases, punching Mike’s shoulder lightly.

“I dunno,” Mike turns his face away, hiding the new blush breaking over his already flushed cheeks. “They’re just freehand. I don’t have a model.”

“I can be your model,” Brooks says quickly, the words out before he can think about them, the honest desire preceding logic.

“Uh… are you sure?” Mike asks, turning to search Brooks’ eyes for sincerity.

“I’m positive,” Brooks tells him, and he means it. He’s pretty sure it’s not just the booze pumping through his veins that makes him so sure, but he’s willing to admit that it’s definitely part.

“Erm, alright, I guess, just…” Mike gets flustered, standing and pacing across his bedroom. Brooks wants to laugh but keeps it in for fear of another tantrum.

Instead, Brooks simply tugs his shirt very ungracefully over his head and drops it to the floor.

Mike stops dead in his pace, falling silent for a moment as he stares at Brooks, open and vulnerable and waiting for him. It doesn’t last long though, and soon he’s babbling incoherently again.

Brooks shuts him up by shoving the sketchbook into Mike’s shaking hands and pointing him to the chair in the corner. Mike goes obediently and pretends to search for a clean page while Brooks undresses the rest of the way.

Brooks is fully naked then, and stretching out on Mike’s bed, propped up on an elbow.

Mike looks up finally, and finds himself unable to look away, because _fuck,_ Brooks Laich is naked on his bed, and it’s not a bad view. Not by a long shot.

“Paint me like one of your French girls,” Brooks says, adding an attempt of a sleazy wink. It helps break the tension, and Mike laughs, tapping the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.

“Just… relax,” Mike says, and Brooks does, lying down on his back diagonally across his back. His eyes fall half-closed, mouth forming a simple “o.”

Mike gets up after a few moments of staring, gently arranging Brooks limbs around him in different combinations until he gets the right look. Brooks just watches him, body pliant under his hands, admiring the way Mike’s eyes focus in on him.

When Brooks is in the right position, Mike takes his seat once again, and Brooks can hear the light scratching of the pencil lead against the page. He lets the sound fill his mind, falling into a state between awake and dozing.

“Brooks,” Mike says, prodding Brooks in the shoulder with his eraser. “I’m done.”

Brooks rolls up to sit, reaching for the sketchbook in Mike’s hands. He’s hesitant about it, but he hands it over. Mike bites his lips and rocks back and forth on his heels nervously while Brooks scrutinizes the image.

“This is really good, Mikey.” Brooks tells him after a while, looking up at him with a genuine smile. Mike can feel his grin in his jaw. 

“Thanks, man. Now, uh, you can put your clothes back on.” Mike says. He tries to avoid looking at Brooks but it’s difficult, cause he’s sort of naked, and sort of on Mike’s bed, and that’s sort of way hotter than he can handle at this level of drunk.

“Or you could take yours off,” Brooks suggests, completely monotone.  

Mike would’ve done a spit-take if he had a drink in his mouth. “Uh, what!?”

“You heard me.” Brooks says in a sort of smoky whisper that makes Mike’s knees weak. “C’mon, return the favor.” Brooks reaches for one of Mike’s hands, twining their fingers together and dragging them down his own thigh together. Mike visibly shudders.

“Brooks… this is a bad idea. We’re both really drunk and…” Mike tries to protest.

“Shhh,” Brooks stands up, pressing both their fingers to Mike’s lips. “Let this happen.”

It really only takes Brooks whispering the words by Mike’s ear, low and warm, to get him nodding and biting his lip.

“That’s what I thought,” Brooks smirks a little and starts unbuttoning Mike’s shirt. He gets it off and Mike goes for his neck, sucking more than kissing. Brooks’ tips his head back, moaning and letting Mike push him back onto the bed.

Mike leaves a trail of biting kisses up Brooks’ neck to his mouth, finally kissing him. Brooks fingers claw at Mike’s back, pulling him as close as possible.

“Fuck, Brooksie,” Mike pants when Brooks slides his fingers down the back of Mike’s jeans. “Will you… shit, will you fuck me?”

“Hell yes,” Brooks grins. Mike scrambles up to kick his jeans and boxers off. He straddles Brooks when he’s finished and kisses him again.

“Have you ever done this before?” Mike asks a few minutes later when Brooks is nibbling at his ear.

“Only a few times,” Brooks says.

"I have stuff," Mike says, gesturing to the nighstand.

Brooks gets out a bottle of lube and spreads some over his fingers. “You ready?” He asks.

“Fuck yeah,” Mike says. He gets a hand around Brooks’ dick, stroking him loosely as Brooks gently slides a finger into him. “God fucking fuck…” Mike groans, biting the skin between Brooks’ shoulder and neck.

“Good?” Brooks asks, rubbing the back of Mike’s neck with his hand to soothe him.

“Yeah, yeah, keep going,” Mike practically begs. Brooks does, getting another finger in and thrusting a little. Mike rocks back onto his fingers, moaning and swearing. “Okay, Brooks, I’m ready.” Mike tells Brooks, climbing off of his lap to lie down on the bed.

Brooks gets the condom on and moves to kneel in front of Mike, getting himself lined up. “Are you sure, Mikey?”

“Yes, fuck, just fucking do me already,” Mike groans, wriggling impatiently. Brooks would laugh if he wasn’t so turned on by the whole thing. Instead, he pushes in slowly, watching Mike’s face as he goes. It’s tight and hot and more intense than Brooks expected. He almost loses it right there, but manages to keep it together long enough to get all the way in.

“Fuck, yeah, just like that,” Mike whines as Brooks starts to thrust.

Brooks sets a rhythm of slow and deep thrusts. Every few, he tries a slightly different angle until he finds the perfect one that makes Mike arch up off the bed and make a sort of choking noise.

“Fuck, right there,” Mike tries to say, but his voice breaks in the middle and it comes out as more of an exhale. Brooks loses his rhythm right there, just starts thrusting as hard as he can towards that spot, winding a hand around Mike’s dick and thrusting erratically.

Mike chokes out, “Brooks,” once before coming over his stomach and clenching around Brooks. The image of Mike’s face alone sends Brooks over the edge. He collapses onto Brooks, moaning into his neck. Mike strokes the back of Brooks’ head as he rides it out.

“Fuck,” Brooks sort of laughs against Mike’s skin, who grins in response. Brooks gets up to toss the condom and clean them up with some tissues. He lies back down on the cleaner side of the bed and opens his arms for Mike to join him. Mike does, hooking himself under Brooks’ arm and wrapping an arm around his waist.

“That was fun,” Mike muses. “Should do it again sometime,”

“I could get on board with that,” Brooks says. “We are so framing that sketch.”

Mike laughs against Brooks’ chest. “Where will we hang it?”

“Somewhere that only you and I will see.”

“Sounds good to me,” Mike sighs, melting into Brooks’ body beneath him.

Brooks scans Mike’s walls, searching for the perfect spot, to the sound of Mike’s breath evening out into sleep.

 

~fin

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are encouraged and appreciated! ♥


End file.
